


Your Heart's Desire

by CreepingMuse



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabbles, F/F, F/M, Ficlets, Fluff, Gen, Multi, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:25:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3118400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreepingMuse/pseuds/CreepingMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Sleepy Hollow mini-fics inspired by prompts. Mostly Ichabbie, though a few Jenny/Irving/Macey-centric fics. Smut, fluff, angst, we've got it all. Originally appeared on Tumblr as the 250 Fic Giveaway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends! So right about the time Sleepy Hollow was going on its winter hiatus, I hit 250 followers on Tumblr. On a lark, I decided to ask my followers for fic prompts. I promised to fill them all. It seemed like a fun way to fill the hiatus...and correct some of the directions the seasons has taken so far.
> 
> I may have underestimated the interest level. I wound up with 53 ficlets ranging from a hundred words to two thousand. Some of them are really dark; some of them are the fluffiest, silliest things I've ever written. They are presented here with the original unedited prompt (usernames are Tumblr names) and in no particular order. There is no internal continuity -- some fics are strictly canonical; some involve an established relationship between Ichabod and Abbie; a few involve AUs where characters like Katrina or Hawley don't exist. Read the prompts and you should be fine. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who participated in this experiment; it was an absolute blast. I hope you enjoy.

**[tylerbabe1231](http://tylerbabe1231.tumblr.com/) asked: Hello Creeping Muse these are my prompt.. motorcycle ride, day at the beach and sex in archives or the cabin**

 

He let her drive the bike. That always made her happy. Not just because he drove like a bat out of hell, but because she loved the rattle and hum of the engine between her legs, the security of having his arms wrapped around her waist, the way he would rest his big old head on her shoulder as they flew down the road.

They turned their backs on the river and meandered their way across the county. They took the side roads, whizzing past cemeteries and green valleys and a metric fuckton of country clubs. Occasionally Crane would shout something in her ear, pointing out some battle site or the half-ruined home of an old friend, but mostly they let the roar of the engine and the closeness of their bodies speak for them.

They stopped in the Town of Rye and ate fish and chips overlooking Long Island Sound. Crane doused his in way too much malt vinegar, a move Abbie was convinced was designed to keep her from stealing his fries. Later, when they walked down on the beach, shoes in hand, he bought ice cream to make up for it, and didn’t even complain when she immediately ate the crunchy, chocolatey bit at the bottom of the cone and sticky sweetness ran all over their hands.

Neither one of them was tempted by the water. Crane didn’t swim, and Abbie wasn’t much for it since her surprise dunking in the Hudson a few years back. But they sat in the sand and built rough castles – one of which Crane claimed was an exact replica of his ancestral home – and watched the fishermen cast their lines and the kids chase seagulls.

As they headed back for the bike, a cold wind kicked up from the west and fat raindrops fell from the sky. For once Abbie was glad Crane wore his big old coat even in the summer, because now he wrapped it around her shoulders. They laughed as the sleeves fell long over her hands and kept laughing as they mounted the bike and swam toward home.

And nowhere had ever felt as much like home as the cabin. Sometimes it was too small, yeah, and she was set to murder Crane if he didn’t shut his face about some new modern outrage or some ancient piece of boring trivia. But mostly it was warm and cozy and filled with good memories. More of them every day.

They were drenched to the bone when they stumbled through the door, but that was just the perfect excuse to pull dripping clothes from slick limbs, to push wet hair from panting faces, to quickly stoke the fire and collapse in front of it in a tangled pile of limbs.

“This was a good day,” she murmured when they were dry and drowsy, Crane’s hand twitching across her belly, her leg dangling over his hip.

“They are all good days, so long as I’m with you.”

She laughed. “That’s a lie. We’ve had some fucking awful days.” Some of them because of demons. Some of them because of loss. Some of them because they were shitheads and couldn’t always find the right words or keep the right promises.

“I would not trade even the very worst of them for a thousand years without you.”

She looked up at him somberly. “You mean that? You wouldn’t go back if you could? Wouldn’t go back to being a hero and a husband and a father and all those things you were meant to be?”

“This is what I am meant to be. And where. And when.” He punctuated each phrase with a deceptively soft kiss. “I have no doubt of that, Abigail. Nor should you.”

She didn’t have much to say to that. Wasn’t sure what even could be said. So she pulled one of the big, scratchy flannel blankets down over them and he soon he was fast asleep, making that weird whistling noise of his.

Only then did she find the courage to reply. “I love you,” she said for the first time.

She swore she saw him smile.

**Anonymous asked: This is an amazing thing you are doing with the fics by request  I really wanted to request a smut-fic but with my uneasy icabbie feels with this rollercoaster of a 2nd season I'm hesitant ...what about a game night? With Jenny too! Pls and thnx!**

The game night was Ichabod’s idea.

Making it competitive was Abbie’s.

Making it a drinking game was Jenny’s.

“Back before people spent their precious leisure hours staring slack-jawed at a jangling box, we spent them in convivial companionship,” he’d sniffed. “We could play at blind man’s buff or Pope Joan for days. And I’ll have you know I was a noted champion at snap-dragon. I only seriously burned myself the once.”

“No games involving fire,” Abbie had ruled. “But I like the idea of busting out the board games. But let’s make it interesting.”  

The winner of the three-part game extravaganza would be exempt from the tedious job of cleaning and maintaining weapons for a month. No more oiling guns, no more sharpening blades, no more scrubbing ectoplasm off body armor. Everyone agreed it was a pretty choice prize.

“That raises the stakes a little, but I wouldn’t say it makes it  _interesting._ Every time you lose a hand or get a question wrong or whatever, you have to drink. Every time you lose a game, you have to take a shot.”

Abbie wasn’t as crazy about that idea. The other two had height and weight on her in the drinking department. But she did have experience. In the end, they’d all agreed. One blustery Friday night, they all flopped in front of the cabin’s fireplace with a few pitchers of margaritas and a stack of games.

Abbie went first.  _Trivial Pursuit._ It wasn’t her favorite game ( _Settlers of Catan_ for the win), but it was one where she knew she had an advantage. Crane was missing out on two hundred odd years of pop culture and history; Jenny was often out of the loop on account of her traveling and her other…time away.

She filled out her pie first, but they had her sweating there for a minute. Jenny dominated at sports and geography, while Crane gave a surprisingly strong showing in arts and literature. But they all found themselves taking a few sips of their drinks as they fumbled questions on the date of Elvis’ first concert, the number of players on a volleyball team, and which fingernail grows the fastest.

“A clever strategy, Lieutenant,” Crane said after he finished coughing from his shot of tequila. “But I am confident my game will be your undoing.”

“Talk, talk, talk. I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Crane must have done some research, because he pulled out a copy of  _Pictionary._

“Really?” Jenny asked. “You could’ve picked some random old-timey game no one’s ever heard of, but you go for  _Pictionary_?”

“Unlike your sister, Miss Jenny, I am a kind and benevolent soul. I would  _never_ play upon my opponent’s lack of cultural knowledge to feed my own ambition.” Abbie blew him a raspberry. He ignored it and continued: “Rather, I shall play to my own strengths. I have a steady hand and a memory of some renown. I am confident that you are…what is the phrase? ‘Going down’?”

They didn’t have enough players for true teams, so they all gave their word they would guess honestly. The artist got two points; the correct guesser received one.

It was a close game. Yeah, Crane was the best drawer, no doubt about it. His drawings weren’t just clear, they were clever. Sometimes too clever. Jenny and Abbie stared at him blankly as he scribbled what looked like a drinking glass with a dark splotch on it.

“I got nothin’,” Jenny said.

“The Holy Grail?” Abbie shot in the dark.

“Oh for the love of – it’s stained glass!”

They made him take two drinks for the awful pun.

Abbie was a lousy artist but a great guesser. And Jenny was just  _fast_  – she could slam out a recognizable hippo in ten seconds, or guess “first base” before Abbie had even figured out which way was up. But in the end, Crane won. He looked unbearably smug as he poured their penalty shots.

Abbie was feeling no pain at this point. She wasn’t drunk, but everything was warm and slightly out of focus. She clapped her hands together. “Okay, Jenny. What game am I going to whup your asses in next?”

Jenny produced a deck of cards from some Indian casino upstate. “Poker.”

Abbie grinned. Perfect. For a while there, she’d played in a monthly poker night with Corbin and some guys from the department. “Hold ‘em?”

“Yup.” Jenny shuffled the cards once, then looked up at them innocently. “Did I mention it’s strip poker?”

Abbie took a drink. “You really wanna do that to Crane?”

“He’s a big boy. I heard those Revolutionary War camps could get pretty wild. You in?”

Crane’s eyes darted uncertainly between the sisters. “ _Strip_. As in…?”

“We don’t have to do it,” Abbie said. “We can just play it straight.

“No we can’t. The rules were that each person gets to pick one game. This is mine.”

“It all seems in good fun, Lieutenant. But if you would rather not, of course we shall demure.”

Yeah. Like she was gonna back down in the face of Jenny’s smirk or Crane’s overly solicitous concern. She took another drink. “Fuck it. It’s not gonna be a problem for me anyway because I’m gonna win.”

They took a few minutes to explain the game to Crane, but he caught on fast. “It is but a variant of brag. Simple enough.”

Jenny took the first two hands. Shoes came off. Abbie had a run of stellar cards with the next two hands and managed to keep her socks on, but then Crane realized how easy it was for him to count cards and he roared back. Soon Abbie was shedding her jacket.

That was just as well anyway. Between the tequila and the fire, she was feeling almost uncomfortably warm.

As Abbie’s jacket hit the floor, Jenny stood and yawned. “You guys have fun. I’ve got a thing.”

“You’re not fucking serious.”

“But Miss Jenny, we were so enjoying the pleasure of your company. You can’t just leave now.”

“Can and will. I’m meeting a contact about a thing we’re gonna want. I’ll tell you more tomorrow. Besides, you guys are both up a game on me.” She waggled her fingers and before Abbie could threaten to murder her baby sister, she swept out into the night.

Abbie and Crane stared at each other. Yeah, it definitely was hot in here.

“We needn’t finish. Or we needn’t finish with these particular stakes.”

Ever the gentleman. But it was just a game. Just a stupid game. People played strip poker all the time and it didn’t mean anything.

“Deal the cards.”

With just the two of them, the hands came quickly. Her straight flush beat his two pair. His coat was folded neatly on the floor. She won again with some award-winning bluffing, squeaking by with a pair sevens.

He tugged his shirt off over his head a little too casually, a shade too quickly. He got tangled in the head hole for a minute but was soon folding it and laying it on top of his coat. God, she always forgot how skinny he was. Made her want to go fix him a sandwich here and now. But there was lean muscle there too, and just enough hair to keep him from looking like a scrawny sophomore. His hand fidgeted over his scar. Was he self-conscious about it? Or was his hand just drawn there, right to his heart?

“I believe it is your deal,” he prompted, licking salt from his lips.

“Oh. Right.”

It was getting harder to keep track of the cards. How many aces were out? Shit. Focus. You’re not that drunk, Abbie. And just because Crane’s sitting there half naked is no excuse to lose.

She lost.

She refused to make a production out of this. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before anyway, back when they’d barely known each other two weeks. Why did it matter now? She yanked her shirt off defiantly and threw it aside; fuck folding. She met his eyes and dared him to say something.

He didn’t. But he looked. His eyes fell down over her, slowly, not rushing to her tits. They caressed down the column of her throat, lingered at her collar bones. And yeah, he took in the soft mounds of her breasts, but then he moved downward, across her stomach, playing about her navel, the button of her pants. Then he met her eyes again and reached for the deck of cards.

They both squinted at their hands. “Ladies first,” Crane offered.

She showed her cards. Four jacks.

Something in his face twitched. He lowered his hand. A minor flush.

Abbie leaned back on her elbows. Fuck it. Fuck feeling weird. Maybe it was the tequila talking, but this was supposed to be  _fun._ She was going to enjoy the show goddamn it.

Crane rose –and rose and rose – and reached for the buttons of his pants. He gave her a quick glance, to make sure she wasn’t going to faint away of the vapors, she guessed, and then slipped out of those ridiculous trousers.

She knew he was a boxer man because she’s the one who bought them for him. But buying them and seeing them were two different things. It wasn’t that seeing him in them was sexy, exactly, but it was…vulnerable. Private. Something she wasn’t supposed to see.

She couldn’t look away.

“You seem to have me on the run, Abigail. One more hand and you could win it all.”

“Better get to it then, huh?”

He sat back on the floor, carefully cross-legged. She dealt. He was silent for a long, long moment. He pulled his cards into a neat pile and placed them on the floor in front of him. “I fold.”

“You can’t _fold._ Not now. Not this close to the end. You’re just scared of how hard I’m gonna whip your—“

She flipped his cards over. A royal flush.

She looked from him to the cards and back again. Maybe he didn’t understand. He was still new to the game, after all. “Crane, this is—“

“I fold,” he repeated. “If ever I am granted access to the fullness of your body, I wish it to be of your own desire. Not due to the follies of a card game.”

Jesus. He meant it. He said stuff like that, and to the very bottom of his soul,  _he meant it._

Abbie turned her back on him. She slid a finger beneath the strap of her bra. “It can be because of both, can’t it?”

She let her hand fall. It was up to him. If he was serious, if this was what he wanted to do, then he could do it. If not, they’d chalk it up to the booze and repress. You know, the healthy way of dealing with things.

But then his calloused fingers were on her back. There was no fumbling with the bra; it was unfastened in a hot minute. But he took his time pushing the straps down. First one. Then the other. The bra fell away and he traced where it had been, drawing lines along her shoulders, around the curve of her torso with a long finger.

By the time he actually found her breasts, hefted their weight in his hands, thumbed across her nipples, Abbie was ready to burst into flames. But he continued to take his time, tracing these new hidden places of her body, savoring her every angle and aspect without ever even  _looking_ at them.

After what felt like forever (after what felt like a second), his hands found their way to the top of her jeans. “Is it necessary for us to play the final two hands, or…?”

“I fold.”

**[ambrosiajones](http://ambrosiajones.tumblr.com/) asked: Hi! I'm new to SH (but all caught up and angry!) and I love your fics so much and I have an idea: established relationship (Maybe they haven't done the do yet? Everything but?), perhaps an argument? Ichy loses control in a similar fashion to "Necromancer" with the yelling, and then takes control, if you know what I mean. (I mean bossy, "I'm in charge!" sex.) And Abby is crazy turned on and bites her lip and maybe says "Yes, sir" and oh my god I'm so sorry. Thank you!**

Abbie planted a foot in the minion’s chest and yanked her sword free. “I think that was the last of—“

A rush of air  _wooshed_ up behind her. Crane roared. There was a wet, squishy sound. A small  _thud._ Then a big one. When Abbie spun around, Crane was standing over a decapitated minion. His shoulders heaved; a line of the creature’s blood spattered across his face in a dark diagonal slash.

“Shit. Thanks for having my back.”

Crane kicked the head like a soccer ball, sending it soaring off into the woods. Then he kicked the body. Again and again he shoved his boot into the thing’s rib cage until it turned into a pulpy, formless mass. He planted his foot right on the thing’s sternum and stomped down with a sickening  _crunch_. And that’s when Abbie pulled him away.

“Whoa, whoa. Take it easy.”

He shook her arm free but at least he didn’t go back to pulverizing the corpse. “How can I be  _easy_ when you could very nearly died at that creature’s hands?”

“I very nearly die like twelve times a day. The important thing is that I didn’t.”

She expected the piss to run out of him. For him to apologize and hold her face softly and tell her how terrified he was and how precious she was. For him to kiss her like she was made of cotton candy and might melt away. That was usually the way these things happened. And it was  _nice_. It was still weird and wonderful to be treated like someone who needed to be protected.

But Crane didn’t play to form. Instead, he walked away from her, fingers raking through his hair, heels digging into the ground with every step.  

Abbie gave him a minute. She took the time to admire how his anger made his neck draw up into cords, how his hands were for once still, balled into fists at his side, how his shoulders seemed to grow even broader with his rage.

She found him pacing by the car. “You okay?”

“I suppose I should be the one asking you that question.” His voice was still tight and a couple notches lower than usual. He looked up at her. “You  _are_ all right, are you not?”

“Yes, sir.” She caught her lip between her teeth. She didn’t see Crane lose it very often. He kept everything all very wound up and British. So to see him, for once, just  _feel_ something instead of  _think_ something…yeah. It did things to her. “Thanks to you.”

That got through the last echoes of his blood lust. His eyes flickered over her body, lingering at the places where her shirt clung, where the neck had been tugged down to reveal more cleavage than usual.

“I think you deserve a reward.” She swayed forward, accentuating the swing of her hips. But she didn’t touch him. She needed to make sure that he really  _was_ okay enough for this. That neither one of them were gonna get hurt. “What do you think it should be?”

Crane drew in two deep, shaky breaths. Shit. She must’ve misread something. “Hey, rain check. Let’s just go home, get cleaned up.” She turned toward the car. “We’ll get some sleep and—“

She yelped as he seized her hips with both hands, his fingers digging into her flesh. He ground against her ass, hard and ready. She guessed it was called blood _lust_ for a reason after all. “Now will do, Lieutenant.”

Abbie swirled back against him, harder than she usually would have. Testing him. Usually he was perpetually (and sometimes irritatingly) romantic, sweet and tender, like they were on the cover of some fucking romance novel.

But she had a feeling that tonight might be a little different.

He grunted and bent his head. He kissed roughly down the line of her jaw, down her neck. He found that sensitive cradle where her shoulder met her neck and bit down with full force. Not enough to break the skin, but enough to send electric waves of pain and pleasure jolting through her. She gasped and grabbed his thigh to stabilize herself. He’d never—not once—but—

His hands darted up under her shirt. Feathery caresses were replaced with scrabbling fingers tugging insistently at nipples. Palms scraped, nails scratched.

Abbie made a noise she wasn’t sure was quite human and bucked back against him.

“All right?” His mouth was flush against her ear, his voice low.

She just nodded. This was no time for  _talking,_ and for once even Crane seemed to get that. He nipped at her earlobe, pulled at the stud long enough to make her ache. Then he was kissing and biting down her neck and his hands were fumbling with his pants.

Abbie took her cue and tugged her own jeans down. Her pussy quivered as it met the chilly air. It trembled again when he put a hand around the back of her neck and bent her over the hood of the car.

There was no teasing. No more foreplay. He was just  _in_ , to the very hilt. It was fast enough and just premature enough to sting, but Abbie did. Not. Care. Her hands scrabbled for purchase on the slick car hood, but he was holding her tightly enough that she didn’t need to worry. She pressed her cheek against the cold metal and turned off the part of her that thought as he pistoned into her fast and harsh and perfect.

He pushed her up the hood until she stood on her tiptoes. He arched up from beneath her deeper and harder, hitting places she wasn’t sure he’d ever hit before. And when she felt him tensing, heard him gasping and growling, that’s when he finally reached around and flicked her clit mercilessly, over and over again until her scream bounced off the trees and she just disappeared.

When she opened her eyes again (when she remembered she  _had_ eyes again), Crane had laid her gently on the grass and was curled around her, making shushing noises into her hair.

“Fuck me,” she whispered through a raw throat.

“I believe I just did.” She gave his smug face a playful smack. “Do forgive me, dear Abbie. With the battle and then your unexpected offer, I fear I may have become a bit carried away in the moment.”

“Yeah. I’m pretty pissed about it in case you couldn’t tell.” She stretched languidly and settled her head against his shoulder. She could still feel a faint throb beating between her legs; she could already feel a pleasant ache where his teeth had marked her. She was gonna have to bust out the concealer tomorrow.

Still didn’t care.

“I was just so terribly worried. And then so terribly  _angry_ at that thing for almost taking you from me and—“

“I accept your apology.” He could go on like this for days if she didn’t just give him absolution. Better to just get it out of the way. “On one condition.”

“You need only speak it.”

“You promise to fuck me like that more often.”

His laugh rumbled through her. He ghosted his lips across her neck. “I am ever at your command, madam.”

**[primarybufferpanel](http://primarybufferpanel.tumblr.com/) asked: Heya, I sent you a Jenny/Big Ash prompt, not sure if it arrived? (you mentioned you'd only gotten Ichabbie prompts). In any case, if Jenny & Big Ash is a thing you write, I'd love something about (the first time?) a post victory drink turns into post-victory making out. Or anything about the two of them you feel inspired to write, really :-)**

 Jenny kept her hands shoved into her pockets as she examined Big Ash’s collection. Her fingers itched to test the edges of the flint knives, feel the cool glaze of the painted pots, read the stories of the intricate bits of beadwork with her fingertips. But Ash was being incredibly cool by letting her look at these precious objects at all. She could never disrespect him by polluting them.

“This is incredible. I thought most of these objects had been destroyed centuries ago – holy shit, is that what I think it is?”

Ash peered over her shoulder at the ancient stick, the leather webbing eaten away almost entirely by time. “Manabozho’s lacrosse stick. One of my favorites. No mystical powers, but a hell of a story.”

“Just – wow.” So much history. So much power in one place, lovingly maintained through the most impossible circumstances. She managed to tear herself away from the beauty before her and beamed up at Ash. “Thank you for this. And for keeping Ichabod from getting his fool self killed. Again.”

Ash shrugged his massive shoulders. “Seems like he’ll get his wish one day.”

“But not today.”

“But not today,” Ash echoed with the smallest smirk. But his eyes lingered on hers, then dipped to her own lips before swooping back up. “Stay for a drink?”

“Yeah, sure.”

After closing the artifact trunk and knocking out a quick lock spell, Ash led the way to the chest cooler in the corner of the shop. Rocket was sprawled on his side on top of it, looking cozy and conked the fuck out in his little dog hoodie. Ash picked him up so gently, the dog didn’t even wake up. He just kicked his sticklike legs and sighed when he was placed on his giant, fluffy bed.

Jenny had never much cared for tiny dogs; at that point, just get a cat and then you don’t have to walk it. But if Ash loved that stupid shivering thing so much, there must be something to them after all. “Cute,” she said.

"He looks that way, yeah. But he once ate a guy’s pinky finger. I wouldn’t fuck with him. Would I? Would I? No, we don’t fuck with Rocket." His voice went high and playful as he rubbed the dog’s belly. Jenny had no idea if he was joking or not. She decided not to laugh, just to be safe. 

After a quick pat, Ash dug a few bottles out of the cooler. Craft beer from somewhere upstate. He passed one of the wet brews to her and she popped her own top off. “To saving the world. Again. Some more.”

They clinked. “World seems more worth saving when I’m doing it with you than with Hawley.”

Jenny laughed this time. “Yeah, he’s an asshole all right. I never understood why you didn’t punch his teeth in after the way he treated you guys.”

Ash drank. Jenny did too; the beer was shockingly good. “Too direct. But we got ours. You shouldn’t trust every virility charm you’re sold.” Jenny nearly did a spit take as Ash held up his index finger and slowly let it droop down.

“You didn’t.  _He_ didn’t.”

Ash took another drink.  

“That is too fucking good. Ah, man. I wish I could be there when he figures it out.” She shuddered. “Wait, no I don’t.”

“He mentioned you a few times. I thought you two were fucking.”

“Not any more. Not for a long time now.” The chair creaked as Ash shifted. The silence was heavy and yeah, Jenny felt a little judged. “Sometimes when you get out of the nuthouse for the fourth time, you feel a little fragile and you wind up hooking up with a blond hobbit for a while, you know?”

“Happens to the best of us.” That awkward tension melted as they both shared a short laugh.

But it was quickly replaced with a different kind of tension. Jenny became hyperaware of just how close they were sitting in the lawn chairs that made up the shop’s décor. Their knees almost touched. And every time he moved, she was hit by the smell of him, a weird but appealing mix of sage and motor oil.

“How about you? You’ve gotta have a biker babe of your own, yeah?”

Ash’s tongue flashed pink as he delicately licked a drop of beer from his bottle. He set it aside. Then his hand was on her knee, thumb just stroking against the bony cap. “Why? Do you ride?”

Jenny was on him so fast her beer plinked to the ground and the smell of yeast exploded everywhere. But neither of them cared much. They were too busy weaving their fingers through long, dark hair, discovering the rhythms of their lips and tongues, and stripping off their vests.

**[irishfino](http://irishfino.tumblr.com/) asked: a demon is attacking a nudist colony for reasons**

Abbie tugged her shirt over her head. She hadn’t realized how cold she was until she was starting to warm up again.                                                

Behind her, Crane fumbled with the billion buttons on his trousers. “Let us agree never to speak of this day. Ever.”

“Deal.”

“Uh, no deal. Are you kidding? Did you see that woman with the tits the size of my head? And  _Abbie_ , did you see the size of Crane’s—“

Abbie lifted a foot and whupped her sister’s still-bare ass.

“—bayonet,” Jenny muttered. 

**Anonymous asked: Hi, idea for a prompt was for newly "divorced" Ichabod to see a kiss between Nick and Abbie. He begins to act different and perhaps she starts to investigate? While I'm not a Nabbie shipper, I just want Ichabod to squirm a bit.**

My dear sweet Non, I love you, Abbie, and myself too much to write that nasty ship even as a means to Ichabod and Abbie. Will you accept Luke as a substitute?

The words on the page were indecipherable hieroglyphs to her tired eyes. She checked the cover of the book to make sure she wasn’t actually  _supposed_ to be reading hieroglyphs, but nope. Latin. Probably a good sign to call it a night.

“I’m gonna head out. We’ll hit it again first thing in the morning.”

“But Lieutenant, we’re making real progress here.” Crane swept his arms wide, indicating the messy pile of papers and books they’d acquired. “Surely a few hours more and we’ll have cracked it.”

“We’ve made no progress in the last five hours. In fact, because you realized you mistranslated those runes, we actually went in reverse.”

Crane hovered up behind her and took her by the shoulders. “All the more reason to keep cracking at it. Sit. Please, sit. I’ll just boil up a fresh pot of coffee and—“

Not again. Not tonight. She wasn’t going to play this fucking game. She ducked under his hands and spun to face him. “This is not cute anymore. What’s up with you?”

Crane had always been a drain on her time, between his Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer schtick and the real business of averting the apocalypse, but in the last couple weeks he’d gotten almost compulsive about being together. Whenever she tried to leave, he’d find some excuse why they had to research a little more, train a little harder, hunt a little longer. One night she swore he’d even faked being sick just so she’d stay and watch a few more episodes of  _House Hunters International_ while he gave counterfeit sneezes.

As always when she called him out, Crane looked like someone had clubbed a family of baby seals in front of him. “Nothing is  _up_. I have merely recommitted myself to the seriousness of our cause. If you do not hold it in the same esteem as I do, I of course understand.”

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.  _Nope._ “You can shove your seriousness up your ass.”

She grabbed her bag. Then  _he_ grabbed her bag. For a minute she thought this was going to turn into a tug-of-war – one which she would win, make no damn mistake – but then he let go. At least he had the good manners to look embarrassed.

“Lieutenant, please. Forgive me. I spoke in anger. No one could ever be more stalwart and dedicated than you.”

“I’m out.” She threw the bag over her shoulder and headed for the door. Was almost gone, almost dared think that she’d successfully gotten the last word for once, when—

“Why are you so eager to go? Are you off to see him?”

Ah. And there it was. She stopped but didn’t turn. “Who?”

“Officer Morales,” he gloomed. “I happened to espy you across the town square. I would have hailed you, but then both of your mouths were rather occupied at the time.”

She hadn’t expected to get back with Luke. But after the whole thing in the cabin he’d needed someone to talk to. And one thing led to another and well, Luke always knew how to make sure she was taken care of. She wasn’t sorry. “Grown-ass woman kisses hot guy, film at eleven. What’s your problem?”

Crane drew in a breath to launch into a lecture—and held it. He dipped his head and scuffed a foot across the floor. “When I saw you, I…didn’t like it.”

“I know you don’t like Luke. I don’t care. He’s funny and honest and he eats me out like a fucking  _dream,_ Crane.” She didn’t even know if he understood that phrase but she didn’t care. She was on a roll now and there was no stopping her. “And then he makes me breakfast, okay? He’s fun and he’s easy to be with, so forgive me if I don’t give a good goddamn what you think of him.”

She was a little out of breath after that. She wanted to sit down, but—no. She’d be gone soon anyway. And she hadn’t been planning on going to Luke’s, but you’d better believe she’d ride him like a bronco tonight.

Crane was quiet, as if making sure there wasn’t more coming. Then finally: “My visceral reaction had nothing to do with my feelings toward Officer Morales.”

She refused to give him the satisfaction of asking why. She waited.

“That night I realized that it did not matter whose lips were upon yours. I would always wish they were mine instead.” His head was bowed so she couldn’t see his face. Come to think of it, she couldn’t feelher own face. It was half numb and half consumed in flames. And he was still talking. “I realized I wanted more than anything to know how you taste.” He panted out a laugh. “I’ve tried to imagine it ever since, breathing in your scent and twisting it about in my head. I’ve come close, I think, but my musings must fall so very short of the reality.”

It would be so easy to run to him right now. To tell him that yeah, she’d wondered too. That she’d woken up so many nights swearing she could smell him, not just his familiar wool and wood smoke, but the way he smelled when he was slicked with sweat, when the room was heavy with musk and he tasted like salt and sex. That she got lost sometimes watching his hands until she had to grind her thighs together to stop the throbbing.

That it was deeper than any of that and it gave her feelings she didn’t have names for, feelings she didn’t dare look at too closely, lest they grow wings and fly away.

So. Fucking. Easy.

But instead, she looked at him with narrowed eyes. “And so you decided to respond to this knowledge by being a possessive asshole?”

His shoulders slumped. He threw his hands up and let them slap against his sides as they fell. “Hello. Have we met? I’m Ichabod Crane.”

Abbie laughed. She felt like a traitor, but she laughed.

That gave him the courage to look at her. He moved closer, but stopped six feet short. “I am sorry. For all of it. Even for feeling this way about you. I know you’d prefer…I know it’d be simpler if…” He trailed off with a hopeless shrug.

And yeah, he was right. It’d be simpler. Like Luke was simple. It was never gonna be that way with Crane. Never could be.

But maybe it could be hard and messy and complicated and  _worth it._

She took the last two steps toward him.

Turns out she had a lousy imagination.

She was okay with that.

**[shaloved30](http://shaloved30.tumblr.com/) asked: Can you write a follow up of sorts of Jenny and Greta? I don't have specifics but maybe there's some sisterly teasing from Abbie this time? Maybe Greta can have some info they can use? I really enjoy bi Jenny as a personal headcanon and thank you for sharing that with us as well.**

A/N: Greta is an OC introduced in a [previous 250 Giveaway Fic](http://creepingmuse.tumblr.com/post/104524720038/squee-a-love-spell-hits-sleepy-hollow). She became Jenny’s lover during a love spell, and they decided to stay in touch. 

Jenny fidgeted with her seatbelt. “Remember, no supernatural stuff. I don’t want Greta caught up in this. If there was anyone else we could turn to—“

“Jenny. We’re asking her to go through some funky back taxes, not swing a sword. I think she’ll be okay.”

Yeah  _but_. People always had a way of getting mixed up in the supernatural. Even if it seemed innocent, even if it seemed safe, somehow it never quite was. And even though she’d met Greta during a goddamn love spell, that didn’t mean Greta understood Jenny’s world. Which was how she liked it. For the first time since she was a kid, Jenny had one person who had no idea what four white trees meant.

“It’s just this once. I know she’s a really good accountant – I don’t know what makes an accountant good, math, I guess? – but this is the only time we’ll use her. The  _only_ time. And you’ll get the department to pay her. Right?”

“Yes of  _course._ ” Abbie made the turn into the beige little office park where Greta had her equally beige little office. “I didn’t realize how much you liked her.”

Jenny had no idea how she’d wound up with someone so  _normal,_ but Greta didn’t make her feel normal. She made her feel extraordinary. Greta loved her stories about traveling the world – heavily sanitized, of course – and things that were old hat somehow became new again for Jenny. But it wasn’t all one-sided. Greta was fascinating. She looked at the word in this totally different way, this way that was smart and thoughtful and untouched by darkness. Jenny loved nothing more than to lay her head on Greta’s stupendous breasts and talk about nothing. About everything.

And her hands, Jesus Christ, the things she could do with her fingers should be illegal.

“Yeah. Well. I just want to make sure she’s treated right. And that she’s safe.”

“I promise no one will ever know she was involved in this.” Abbie threw the car into park and squeezed Jenny’s knee. “I’m happy for you. And I can’t wait to meet her.”

Jenny cleared her throat. “I’d like to see you happy, too.”

“Yeah, well, the only guys I ever see are Crane and Irving, so yeah, no dice.” She wrinkled her nose at the romantic idea of either man, even though anyone with half a brain could see that glitter exploded out of her eyes any time she looked at her partner.

Dumbasses. The both of them.

“There could be dice. There  _are_ dice.”

Abbie blinked in confusion. “What?”

Jenny sighed. “Nothing. Nevermind. Let’s get this over with.”

They slid out of the car and Abbie draped her arm over her sister’s shoulders. “Do I need to have the talk with her? About how I’ll break her kneecaps if the ever hurts my baby sister? Because I will have that talk with pleasure.”

Jenny laughed and shoved her sister away. Something felt weird in her chest, some rising lightness that was familiar but dusty.

Oh. Right. This was what happiness felt like.

**[jupisan](http://jupisan.tumblr.com/) asked: 250 prompt: fencing, under AU meeting the parents**

A/N: I’m not much on AUs, so I’m going to stick to fencing. Established relationship.

The Sword of Methuselah was stupid. Who the fuck designs a sword that kills the person who wields it? That is a poorly designed weapon right there. No, give her the distance, accuracy, and not-killing-the-shooter-ness of a gun any day over this hunk of steel.

But she had to admit, it was beautiful. And swords seemed to keep coming up in their fight. Yeah, she’d managed to spit the Pied Piper pretty okay on instinct alone, but that was only going to get her so far.

She hefted the sword. “I want you to teach me to fence.”

Crane had his nose almost pressed against some scroll he was reading. “Insert the pointy bit into your enemy. Repeat as necessary. Clean thoroughly once finished.”

“I’m being serious, Crane.”

He squinted over at her. He was going to ruin his eyeballs with all this reading; one of these days, she’d have to take him to an eye doctor. But for now, sword fighting had to be the priority. “You’ll not fight with that cursed sword. We’ve been through this.”

“In our fucked-up world, there is always another magic sword. And I need to learn how to use them. I taught you how to fire a modern gun.” Which had actually been easy, since he was used to garbage weapons with miserable aim. Having a multi-round weapon with a sight had been a revelation for Crane. But this was a little farther outside her frame of reference.

Crane cracked his back – Abbie cringed – and stood. He plucked the sword from her hand, but held it only with the tips of his fingers, as if the soul-stealing magic was catching. “As much as I loathe to admit it, I am perhaps not the most able of instructors when it comes to the sword.” He flipped the weapon in his hand. “There is a very simple reason Abraham always managed to best me at dueling: At its finest, my swordplay was mediocre.”

“Ichabod Crane admitting he’s not good at something? Bless my soul.”

Her teasing worked: some of that sadness fled, and he managed a thin smile. “Yes, yes, quite shocking I know. But I fear spreading my poor form and lack of finesse to you.”

“So you’d rather I just blindly swing a dangerous weapon around?” She kept her tone light; it was the only way to get through to him. If she made it too serious, he’d shut down and never show her how imperfect he was. “Sounds like a good plan. Okay. We’ll do that.” She took a step away. On the count of one, two…

“Oh, very well. If you insist.” He dropped the Sword of Methuselah onto the table as the world’s deadliest paperweight. She grinned and trotted over to the weapons cabinet. The rusty old swords they’d gotten for the Henry gambit were shitty, but they’d work. And hell, they were dull as butter knives, which was actually a bonus here.

She handed him one of the swords, but he immediately set it on the table too. “We are ages away from you facing an opponent, Lieutenant. It all begins with your form.” Despite his protestations, he sure fell into the teacher role easily.

“I don’t need to be fancy. I don’t care if I look stupid doing it. I just need to be effective.”

“And if you understand the proper way to carry yourself, you will be. The rest is simply frosting on the cake.”

She swallowed a smile. “Yeah. Okay. So show me.”

She expected him to pick up the sword and, you know,  _show_ her. But instead, he stepped behind her.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Teaching you, of course. You hold the blade like so.” He molded her hands around the grip. Hilt. Whatever. “As though you are opening a door. Thumb like so, just against the crosspiece.”

“Easy enough.”

“As for your stance.” He tickled his fingers down the side of her waist, over her hip. He drew a teasing circle around the top of her thigh, just where it met the rest of her body. Then in a practiced and familiar gesture, he nudged her legs apart. “Just there.”

She was only human. She shivered and burned. But she wasn’t happy about it. “Crane, stop dicking around. I really want to learn this.”

“And so I am teaching you, am I not?” He ran his hands lower, one on each leg, to the backs of her knees. He gave a playful poke until she bent her knees. “Exactly so. And remain on the balls of your feet for quick turns, if you please.”

Oh, fuck him. Part of her wanted to do exactly that. But the sensible part of her wanted to learn how not to die. So she ignored him as much as humanly possible. “Got it. Kinda like a batting stance. Easy. What’s next?”

“The bits with the pointy end.” He rose back to his full height and folded his giant body around hers. His hand wrapped around the entirety of her wrist with freakish ease. “A high block,” he said, lifting her arm to just above her head. “And a low block.” At her waist this time. As he moved, he scooted his hips against her until she could feel the outline of him through those stupid baggy pants of his.

“You ever consider that this is why you sucked at fencing?” She repeated the motion. High. Low. The sword was heavy, its weight strange in her hand. But she’d get it. She could do it.

“Oh, my instructor was a crabbed old soldier with terrible lumbago. Not nearly so distracting as I am.” She almost dropped the sword on her feet when his lips brushed the back of her neck. “Fine form, though.”

“If you don’t take this seriously, you aren’t gonna have any distraction for a while.” She bumped back against him.

“I assure you, I have never been more serious in my entire bizarrely long life.” He sucked her earlobe into his mouth and she couldn’t bite back her gasp. He loved playing with her stud earring, flicking it with the tip of his tongue.

“You too scared to teach me? Is that it?” She hadn’t expected her voice to be so breathy, but there it was. “I know you think you’re bad at this, but—“

“I am not afraid. I am smitten.”

Yeah. Well. Both things can be true.

She let the sword clatter to the floor and whipped around in his arms so fast he nearly fell over. “Let’s make a deal. You give me one solid hour of good teaching, and I will show you a few yoga moves I’ve been saving for a rainy day. How’s that sound?”

His hands came to rest on her waist; they nearly wrapped all the way around. “When you say  _yoga_ , you do mean—“

She grabbed a handful of his ass. He bucked his hips forward. “Yes, Crane. I mean naked yoga.”

He snatched the sword from the ground and pressed it into her hand. “To arms, Lieutenant. Quickly, I say, to arms.” 

 


	5. Part Five

**Anonymous asked: After waking up in a hospital Abbie doesn't remember Ichabod or Jenny getting out of Tarrytown. She doesn't know that the demon in the woods was real and she still believes Corbin and Andy are alive and is dating Luke**

She had survived seven years of tribulation. She had battled and risked and triumphed over a thousand horrors, but in the end, it was an accident that took her from him. A young man in a rush, a red light left unheeded, a gush of blood and a terrifying stillness.

For three days, he held vigil. Sometimes he was joined by Miss Jenny, sometimes he was joined by the friends they two had made, constant reminders of the life they had built together. But always, he stayed and watched and prayed.

On the third day, she awoke. She looked upon him and knew him not. She gazed upon him as a stranger and politely asked for Sheriff Corbin. When he stammered that the good sheriff was indisposed, she asked for Luke.

How was he to tell her the sheriff was eight years dead in his grave? How was he to tell her that Mr. Morales had found a Mrs. Morales, and a host of children besides? That they had danced at his wedding and gone home together arm in arm?

In the end, he said nothing. For once in his life he was mute. He let the doctors speak. He let Miss Jenny speak. And he faded, faded, always in the background, always near, always apart.

_Amnesia,_ they called it, a word he knew from its benign Greek antecedent. As though this vast void in her memory, in her  _life,_ could be termed mere “forgetfulness.” The doctors doubted the lost years would ever be regained.

But oh, he longed to. He wished to tell her the story of their introduction, of him in handcuffs and her in mourning, both terrified but both knowing this meeting would change them forever. He burst with the need to tell her of their adventures, to assure her of her bravery, to have her once more mock him for this foolishness. And above all, he wished to reenact their first kiss—his back against the wall, her hands steadying his face, their lips joined in perfect unison.

But if he told her that, there was so much more he would have to explain. He would initiate her once more into a world of demons and horror, of loved ones lost and dreams denied. He would once more pluck her from a life of safety and surety into one where even now, even when the apocalypse was well and truly averted, the night was full of terrors.

And it was a life she was no longer charged to lead. Their destinies fulfilled, they were Witnesses no more. He fought because he chose to, because he had the knowledge and the ability to stand against the tide. But she was innocent as a newborn babe. How could he draw her back into blood and pain? And if he did not, how could he ever explain who he was, what they were to each other?

A thousand times he wished to tell her. A hundred times he nearly did, nearly told her he was not merely a friend, but oh something so much more, deeper than time and truer than blood. But he gazed into her eyes and the words turned to salt in his mouth. It was not that she was untroubled; she still carried her childhood woes and her new misfortunes. But she was  _unburdened._ The weight of the world did not sit upon her shoulders. And he could not place it there once more.

He wept as he purged the home they had shared of mystical influence. Swords, spell components, artifacts and trinkets disappeared. Then so too did all his possessions, paltry as they were, each packed away into cases.

Miss Jenny called him a coward and a fool. Accused him of running away rather than putting in the hard work of making Abbie love him again. And perhaps she was right. Miss Jenny fought for her sister every day, to help Abbie rebuild her life, to once more mend the rifts they had healed long ago. But he could not see Abbie risk her life again and again for a world which would not appreciate her sacrifice. He could not stand by and watch her fear and confusion blossom into terror when she once more learned that all her nightmares were true.

So he prepared to leave. It was better this way, better for her to rebuild a life of peace without the questions he would pose. Where he would go, he could not say. He had a car of his own, creaky but his. Little enough money, but he would manage. He always did.

Tomorrow she would return home, to a house that was hers and hers alone, clean and empty of pain. But tonight, he would sit among the shattered memories that were now his lonely burden and he would remember her.

The next morning dawned without sleep ever finding him, but still he lingered. He washed and changed their sheets— _her_ sheets—and swept the floors and dusted the shelves. He wished to leave some token, a bouquet of flowers, a letter just in case she asked after him, but he did not. He left his key upon the counter and made to leave.

But she was already standing on the threshold, so terribly thin and pale, but her head canted to the side with her customary curiosity and vibrancy. “What are you doing here?”

No. Not here. Not now. He never could walk away from her. “Where is Miss Jenny?”

“Getting my stuff. What are you  _doing_ here?”

“Leaving, madam. Only leaving. I beg your pardon.” He could. For her sake, he could leave. He stepped around her, but just as they passed, she seized his hand.

He looked back at her sharply, his doltish heart expecting a miracle. Truly believing that she would look at him and remember, that his mere touch could bring her back to herself. But there was no recognition on her face. Only sorrow. Only furious concentration.

“Everybody’s not telling me something. And it’s got to do with you. I don’t…” Her gaze dipped; her lip trembled. But she found her courage and gazed back up at him fiercely. “Who am I to you?”

He shook his head. The words would not come. He could not do this. Not to her. Not to him. “ _Tell me_ ,” she pleaded.

“You are my everything,” he whispered. Tears scalded his cheeks, and in his despair he felt no shame.

“Then why are you leaving me?” And oh, she sounded lost but resolute, just as she had in those first fevered days after her sheriff died, after she accepted her fate. And he tumbled into love with her all over again.

“Because I wish for you to lead the life you were always meant to have. Please. I must go. ” He seized his cases and marched on, ever the soldier, with shoulders straight and chin high.

“Then go,” she called coldly. “If it’s so easy for you to walk out on me, I’m better off not getting attached in the first place. Good luck with your whatever.”

He managed to put one foot in front of the other. He did not manage to still his tongue. “It is no easy task. But it is for your own protection.”

“I don’t need protecting. I need reminding.” Faithless as Lot’s wife, Ichabod looked back at her. She was so small. She was so mighty. She could conquer anything. “Stay. Be my everything until I can be yours again.”

The door banged open and Jenny was there, burdened with bags and boxes and a steaming bag of Chinese carryout. Her eyes darted from one interlocutor to the other, but they only had eyes for each other. “Okay there, Abs?”

Her sister was silent. Waiting.

Miss Jenny cleared her throat and turned to him. “Thought you’d be gone.. You gonna stay for lunch?”

“Yes,” he said at last. “I believe I shall.”

* * *

 

**[yalegirl03](http://yalegirl03.tumblr.com/) asked: Sleepy Hollow prompt. Abbie and Ichabod have to hunt a demon at the Tarrytown Comic Con. It is harder than they expect. They have to be in costume in order to blend in.**

“I rather like this.” Crane turned in front of the mirror. “The coat is splendid. The jacket and trousers, while a bit slimmer than one might have hoped, are at least far more freeing than the  _skinny jeans_. Admittedly, the shoes are a bit odd, but…springy.” He bounced on the balls of his feet. “Not at all unpleasant.”

“Good, good,” Abbie said absently as she finished tying his Windsor knot (“What’s a Windsor?” he had asked perplexedly). Trust Jenny to come through with even her weirdest requests. Like a greatcoat and a blue pinstripe suit fit for a malnourished giant. “Now what the fuck am I gonna do with your hair?”

He vetoed cutting it— “I shall be as Samson; you shall not come near me with a scissors”—so she wound up just leaving it loose and roughing it up. She hoped his height and the rest of the get up would help get the point across.

Her own costume was much simpler. Slip into a leather jacket, pull her hair into a droopy top knot, and call it a day.

“But you aren’t wearing a costume at all,” Crane protested.

“Sure I am. Everybody knows the Woman Who Walked the Earth. Especially will once I pull out my crackerjack accent,” she said in a purposefully awful English drawl.

“Are you meant to be French?”

She rolled her eyes and rummaged in a drawer. Two AAA batteries later they were in business. “Anybody asks you a question you don’t understand, you just hit this button”—she tapped the side and the tapered head of the device flew open, revealing a glowing blue light— “and stare at ‘em real hard until they walk away. Got it?”

He poked the head of the device mistrustfully. “I suppose. And my name again?”

“The Doctor.”

“Doctor who?”

"Exactly. Let’s roll." 

* * *

 

**[airedmania](http://airedmania.tumblr.com/) asked: Jenny's shopping with Abbie, looking for an outfit. Jenny had gotten a call from her old friend. And by friend I mean ex-gf she met in Mexico. She taught Jenny everything to know about tracking, particularly in the hills. Jenny is nervous (what to wear, what to say, what should I do when she gets that smirk that makes me go crazy) because Daniela is in town and wants to have dinner, "for...what is it este blanco say? 'Old Time Sake'" Yea, thats my prompt**

“This one.” Abbie held up an A-line dress in frothy mint green. “Gorgeous color on you. Good length—” Jenny was already shaking her head. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Too short, too tight, can’t move in it.” Jenny ticked the issues off on her fingers. “This is Daniela. The first date we ever went on, we wound up tracking a pack of ahuizotl through the Sonoran Desert. For three days. I have to be ready for anything.”

Abbie hid her smile as she returned the dress to the rack. She’d never seen Jenny quite so flustered before, quite so self-conscious about what she wore. The invitation to go shopping had come as a surprise; the deep investment Jenny had in this expedition even moreso.

“What’s your girl doing in Sleepy Hollow anyway?”

“She’s not my girl,” Jenny said quickly. “Unless Luke’s your boy. We broke up.”

“Point taken. Question still stands.”

“Same reason anybody comes to Sleepy Hollow these days. World’s ending and it’s starting here.” Jenny pulled a hideous mango bandage dress from the rack and threw it to the ground. “Which is why I’m stupid for worrying about this. I should be tracking down the Ring of Joseph, not fucking with my makeup.”

Abbie bent and retrieved the dress. “Now stop that. It’s not stupid. You aren’t dead yet and neither is she.”  _Plus I’m glad to see you with practically_ anyone _who isn’t named Nick Hawley,_ Abbie managed not to say. “Tell me about her. Maybe that’ll give me a better idea of what constitutes proper date wear for her.”

Jenny’s eyelashes fluttered. “I was looking for a lead on the lost mine of Tayopa. Corbin needed some silver from there and only there. I didn’t ask why. But I went into this bar in some no-name town on this high plateau in the Sierras and there she was. She had everybody there wrapped around her little finger. No one could take their eyes off her. Least of all me.”

“So she’s beautiful? Funny?”

“Beautiful, absolutely. This crazy thick hair and these…” Jenny raised her hands to her breasts, then glanced at her sister and let them fall with a cough. “Funny…she’s more wry. She always has this kind of twisted smile on her face, so you can’t tell if she’s laughing at herself or at you. Usually it’s both.”

Abbie offered a navy blue dress with leather shoulder pads that jutted out like armor. Jenny wrinkled her nose; Abbie tucked it under her arm to try on herself. “So how’d you wind up tracking demon dogs in the middle of the desert?”

“She said they could smell silver. That if we could find them, we’d find the mine. Back then, I didn’t know my ass from a hole in the ground. It was a miracle I’d made it as far as I did. But Daniela knew everything—how to sweep the ground behind you to cover your tracks, how to smell sulfur on the wind, what plants could keep you alive and which could kill your enemies. And she showed me all of it.”

“She sounds pretty perfect for you.” Abbie let the question dangle unspoken:  _So why’d you break up_? She was curious to know, sure. But she and Jenny weren’t at the place where she could ask that just yet. Hell, she hadn’t known they were at the place where they went shopping together. But Jenny was always faster to forgive than Abbie expected. Than Abbie thought she deserved.

“Yeah. In a lot of ways she is. Was. But…” Jenny trailed off. She slipped a bracelet of fat chunks of unpolished amethyst around her wrist. It made her look dainty, almost frail.

Abbie touched the back of her sister’s hand. “Hey. What were you wearing that first time you met Daniela?”

Jenny swept her hand to encompass her current outfit—cargo pants, Under Armour, a down vest, and probably about twenty pounds of weapons and whatsits that Abbie couldn’t see. “About like this, I guess. Why?”

“Do you feel good in what you’re wearing?”

“Yeah. I feel ready. I feel like me.”

“Then you already look perfect.”

Jenny stared down at herself, then at the endless piles of dresses and frills. “You don’t think I’d look prettier if I put my hair down and wore something…I dunno…softer?”

_Nothing could be prettier than the look on your face when you talk about her._ “Soft’s overrated. But if you’re worried about it, here.” Abbie plucked a pale purple silk flower from the accessories table and tucked it behind Jenny’s ear. “If Mom were here, she’d say you look pretty as pie.”

Jenny, her big-little sister, nearly knocked her over with the force of her hug. After a moment of surprise, Abbie squeezed her back with all her might.

* * *

 

**[jennonthego](http://jennonthego.tumblr.com/) asked: Abbie/Crane - "look up at the sky"**

The rain battered against her face. Her failure pounded inside her skull. She’d let it get away.  _She’d let it get away._ And now who knew what that thing would do, how many people it would kill, what it would do to her town. All because she hadn’t been strong enough, fast enough, smart enough. And they wouldn’t have another shot at finding it until the next dark of the moon. An eternity.

It took everything she had not to just crumble to the ground and sink into the mud. Her sword trailed behind her, its tip ploughing a pathetic furrow in the soil. Her head hung low. All she could see were her feet, all she could think of was putting one in front of the other. Over and over and over again for the next 2,327 days.

"You mustn’t blame yourself." Crane’s voice was half-snatched away by the wind. 

"Who should I blame then, huh? That poor dead kid?" 

"The demon who killed her should bear that blood upon its head. Not you."

She started to shrug, but it was too much effort. Just one foot. Then the other. Over and over until Judgement Day.

The rain started to let up, but that was even worse. It became a pervasive mist that sank into her bones. Still they plodded along.

The squelching of Crane’s boots stopped. Abbie didn’t. He’d catch up.

"Lieutenant." She kept going. She wasn’t in the mood for some big  _Good Will Hunting_ it’s not your fault moment. She just wanted a shower and the nothingness of sleep.

But he wouldn’t let it go. “Lieutenant, look up at the sky.”

Her first instinct was to suspect the moon was crashing into the earth and it was goodnight everyone, but the hushed note of awe in his voice gave her an inkling of hope. She lifted her dripping head and cast her eyes to the skies.

The sky was filled with every color known to man. Some maybe unknown. The rainbow seemed miles wide, translucent and shimmering through the veil of rain. It arced off to the Hudson to the west, to the Hardscrabble Wilderness to the east. And it held all of Sleepy Hollow in its embrace.

"And the bow shall be in the cloud; and I will look upon it, that I may remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is upon the earth," Crane said.

Abbie reached a hand up, and even though the swath of color was far overhead, her skin was dappled with light of every shade. She reached for Crane. Their fingers locked. They walked on with their heads held high. 

* * *

 

**[veilsofgold](http://veilsofgold.tumblr.com/) asked: SHRIEKS* Ok. I have had this prompt saved in case you did this :D Ichabod and Abbie going on a sleigh ride together at twilight. Because I am a sap and need some sweet dorky romance from Fichabod to show Abbie she is gloriously loved by him *_* Smut's good to XD YAYYYY**

“Come along, come along, only a bit farther.”

“Your legs are longer. It’s a lot farther for me,” Abbie grumbled cheerfully. It actually wasn’t too bad, as long as she stayed in his footsteps and let him break down the solid eleven inches of snow that mounded in sugary dunes. “Where are we even  _going_? There’s nothing out here.”

“On the contrary!” he called over his shoulder, his cheeks red and chapped with chill. “There is a forest, lovely even in winter with its patina of snow. There are virgin meadows crossed with iced streams, bright red cardinals flitting about to lend a bit of color. And always, my darling—” he paused in his headlong bounding through the snow and twined an arm about her waist. “Always there is you and me. And wherever we are, there is certainly  _something._ ”

There weren’t too many people on the planet who could get away with a speech like that. But goddamn if Ichabod Crane wasn’t one. She leaned up for a kiss, but he’d already seized her hand and started towing her along again. All she could do was laugh and stumblingly follow.

They took a wide turn around a stand of evergreens and there, like something out of a fucking Christmas card, was an honest to God one horse open sleigh. The dappled gray horse had red ribbons woven into its mane and—yep, there was a garland of jingle bells around its neck.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Crane said, puffed and proud. “The stableman owed me a bit of a favor—won’t get into it now, but suffice it to say equine exorcism is  _not_ terribly easy.” He was halfway to the sleigh before he realized she wasn’t following. “Aren’t you coming?” And at once the pride was gone, washed away by a little-boy shyness that always surprised Abbie when it popped up.

“I…” Shit. He didn’t know. And how was she supposed to tell him? Abbie had decapitated demons, stabbed Pied Pipers, and shot God knows how many bullets at ghosts. But here she was, afraid of a stupid horse wearing stupid bells with stupid holly tied to its stupid tail.

She couldn’t say when it started. She’d never thought about horses for most of her life; they were for rich people, and she wasn’t one of them. But then the night at the stables, the screams of the horses mixing with the smell of Corbin’s blood and the sulfur of that glowing ax. And then the Horseman’s mount, with those red buggy eyes…

Hoof beats meant death.

Crane was back at her side. “You look stricken. What ever’s the matter?” He took one of her hands between both of his mittens and chaffed it, as though the cold were the issue.

It was just a horse. And she wasn’t going to be riding it, she was just going to be sitting behind it. Everything was fine. There was no ax, no horseman, no heads. She forced a smile, but they both knew it for the lie it was. “Just surprised is all. Let’s go.”

Still frowning down at her, Crane tucked her arm beneath his and led her toward the sleigh. Abbie wished she could appreciate it properly, because oh, it was as pretty as any car she’d ever fallen in love with, all sleek lines and gentle curlicues. If it had been powered by a motor instead of a mammal, it would’ve been perfect.

Abbie had hoped that they’d climb right into the sleigh and go off and do whatever you do in a sleigh (laughing all the way, she guessed?). But Crane led her toward the horse. He stopped just out of kicking range, though whether that was because of her nerves or it was just general horse etiquette, she didn’t know.

“This sweet little mare is Holly,” he said.

“Her name is not fucking Holly.”

“Hush. For this evening, it is.” He dug clumsily in his breast pocket and produced a crumbly sugar cube. Abbie braced herself for him to offer it to her, but he didn’t. He stepped up to “Holly” and held the cube flat on his palm. The horse sniffed it, her nostrils flaring wide. And then with blocky teeth that could take his hand clean off, she lapped it up and snuffled for more.

Crane glanced at her far too casually. “Care to make your introductions to Miss Holly?”

“I’m good.”

“Very well.” He handed her up into the sleigh. A thick pile of blankets lay on the floor, and she gratefully reached for them. She yelped in surprise as she found them already warm—two bricks wrapped in flannel lay beneath them, warming her chilled feet.

“You thought of everything.”

“Perhaps not everything,” Ichabod said in a low voice. “We needn’t do this. Speak the word and we shall happily return to the cabin afoot.”

No. No. There was too much to be afraid of without adding this to the list. “Just tell me you’re a better with reins than you are a wheel.”

“I am assuredly much  _slower_ ,” he promised. He took a great deal of time settling the blankets over her, tucking and smoothing until she felt like a burrito. When he produced a flask of mulled wine, he had to hold it to her lips to drink, and she laughed and spluttered spicy droplets.

And then they were off. It was smooth like ice skating. Even the sound was similar, the  _whisk whisk whisk_ of blades on cold. Holly’s hooves were dampened by the snow, taking away that dreaded clip-clop. And the bells rang out brightly and Ichabod’s arm wrapped around her and slowly, surrounded by so much warmth and cheer, she relaxed. She was safe.

They sang, teaching each other new carols to the rhythm of the bells. Crane offered her the reins, but she just tucked herself up against him and shook her head. He told her of snowball fights at Cambridge, of ancient halls filled with mistletoe and candlelight. She told him of stringing popcorn for their tree and eating most of it, of the doll her mother made her with rags and ferocious love.

The sky turned to silver and gold. Then endless inky blue. The temperature dipped and the bricks at their feet grew cold, but Ichabod dropped to his knees beneath the blankets and helped her generate a different kind of warmth.

When at last they drew back in front of the stables, Abbie was languid and cozy inside and out. After Crane had unhitched the mare, she managed a gentle pat on its neck. The horse didn’t seem to notice or care, but Crane did. “Riding next time, shall we?”

“Fuck you,” she said with a smile.  

* * *

 

**Anonymous asked: I loved Henry and Abbie's interactions in She and He and I would love to see you maybe rewrite the fall finale around those two rather than Crane Family Drama. But really whatever floats your boat. The further from canon the better actually. *shrugs* I'm just not ready to let go of all my Henry - Abbie arch-nemesis feels yet. Extra points if it freaks Ichabod out.**

_[For new followers, “She and He” is my alternate Season 2 fic._ _[You can find it here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1108895/chapters/2231996).]_

“I always knew it would be us, in the end.” Henry stood stock-still, looking like nothing so much as the guy in the grocery store who wanted to sell you a newspaper subscription and tell you all about his lumbago.

“I’m curious,” Abbie said, twirling the Not-Sword of Methuselah. “Have you spent the last thirteen years watching B-movies? Because you have really nailed the villainous dialogue.”

“Scoff all you like, Abigail. How could our destinies not be entwined, you and I?” He was still just standing there running his mouth. It was enough to make Abbie wish she  _had_ the real sword instead of this cheap knock-off. But would it still work? Could she just run him through, puncture a lung, let the old man drown right here on dry land? “I who loved Grace Dixon and I who reduced her to ashes? And you who freed me from my grave? We who have suffered at the hands of my father?”

“Always comes back to the daddy issues with you. You know, my dad wasn’t around either but you don’t see me heralding in the apocalypse.” Crane was supposed to be here by now. Everyone was supposed to be here by now. How long could she keep this up?

He began to circle her with long, smooth steps. She turned to keep him in her sights and choked up on the sword. She was not going to play this game. Crane or no Crane, if he started twitching his hands and casting magic, she was going to see what this fake-ass sword could do. “But that’s just it, Abigail. We are two sides of the same coin, you and I. I have chosen to fight back against those who have wronged me. I have chosen the cause of justice and righteousness. You have chosen to become the lapdog to those who hurt you, who ignore you, who send the smallest among them to fight battles which are rightfully theirs.”

“You trying to make me hate you? Because I have to break it to you, you’re a little late for that. I tend to get a little testy when people start murdering my neighbors. And my…” She would not let her voice break.  _She would not let her voice break._ Not in front of him. “…my captain.”

But he smiled, big and white and  _my, Grandfather, how many teeth you have._ “And that is why I like you, Abigail.”

“Stop saying my name.”

“You are not like him, that father-mine. His compassion blinds him, makes him weak, makes him forget who he is and what he must do. But not you. Not you.” He stopped in front of her, hands clasped behind his back in a freaky echo of his father. “You are a cold, hard thing, aren’t you? The world has made you so. But cold-forged iron is the strongest of all. Emotion does not blind you. Empathy does not move you. You are a true soldier. And in you lies such terrible greatness.” He extended his hand, skin bunched and wrinkled like a wadded fast food wrapper. “Break free, Abigail. Fight your own war, not theirs.”

Abbie laughed. Even to her own ears it sounded insane, the kind of sound that wafted through the halls of Tarrytown. It was the laugh of a woman with nothing to lose. Because this fucker. This  _fucker_ standing here psychoanalyzing her, thinking he could turn her into a weapon like this sword, who thought she was clean and empty and another tool to be used. This shitstain who couldn’t understand that Jesus, she felt  _everything,_ felt it so much that sometimes she struggled to stand upright under its ferocious gravity. That she could fight and make the hard decisions because of her love, not in spite of it. That her compassion was different than Crane’s, less personal, but no less real. It was the same sort of compassion that led Grace Dixon to lay down her life for an orphan boy: It didn’t matter who the child was. It mattered that loving him was the right thing to do.

It didn’t matter that the world had wronged Abbie. It mattered that it was her world. 

“This is my war,  _Jeremy._ ” His eyes narrowed. His smile dribbled away. “They want to fight it too, that’s cool. But this is my war. And this is for Grace.” She lunged forward with the fake sword, knowing she’d never make it in time. And sure enough, vines grew up around her before she could take a full step, constricting her like Katrina’s corset.

And the plan unraveled like linen around them, until they were all weak and captive. And in the end, it was not compassion that damned them, but blind affection. For the truly compassionate know that to do the right thing is to do the hard thing, and that sometimes mercy comes at the point of a sword. But Ichabod Crane looked into his son’s eyes and saw only himself.

And so the soldiers fell, one by one.

* * *

 

**Anonymous asked: How about Ichabod seeking comfort in Abbie's arms after he walks in on Abraham eating Katrina's 2 century old pussy?**

**[aryalis](http://tmblr.co/m1oP1hMqbQjL4bdPAdmPjVA)  said:**

**the quiet after the storm… or what happened when Katrina left Ichabod, and he know he did not do so bad because Abbie is here with him… perhaps with a first kiss ! Thanks a lot**

A single knock at the door. Crane on her doorstep, shoulders stooped low, so low they were almost the same height. Eyes a weird shade of pink, like those rabbits they keep in labs.

“Katrina,” he said.

It was the only word he’d spoken.

Ichabod Crane. Had no words. Yeah, she was worried.

The witch wasn’t dead, she was pretty sure. Then there would have been tears, rage, calls for revenge. They would have saddled up and headed out. But this Crane was inert, a slumped doll on her couch staring at nothing, staring at centuries of memories and an instant of betrayal.

Abbie fussed and fluttered around him. She brought him things—Kleenex and a blanket and a beer which dangled untasted from his fingers. But then there was nothing left to bring, and all that was left was a broken man. And her.

She sat at the far end of the couch from him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head.

“Okay.” Should she talk about it? Should she tell him that it was okay? That he was better off without her? That she was sorry? No. She wasn’t going to say that last bit. She wasn’t sorry. She was relieved that that game was finally over, that they could all stop pretending that love could conquer all. Or, hell, that the two of them even loved each other.

But she was sorry he was hurt. She was sorry for the raspy hitch in his breathing, for the way he ran his hands through his hair and pulled and pulled until she winced on his behalf. And she was sorry she couldn’t fix it.

She slid half a cushion closer. “I’m here.”

As soon as she said it, she regretted it. “I’m here”? What could that do? How could that help in the face of whatever this was, this hollowing grief that was crushing him into the ground? But she didn’t have the right words to give. All she had was herself.

His head fell forward into his hands. And this time she didn’t think, she just moved. She bridged the space between them and draped herself over his back. Let her heart beat against his body, let her breath whistle against his neck, let her weight hold him and tether him here to this moment, this place, this time.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t acknowledge her. After a while, his shoulders shook. She made sounds that weren’t words—shushing, lowing, humming. She pressed her lips against the nape of his neck. She gave him permission to weep.

She held him.

After a million heartbeats, a thousand tears, he straightened and she slipped away like she’d never been there at all.

His lips shaped an apology, but she shook her head. “Don’t. Not for this.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. She cleared her throat. “Your beer’s gone warm. Let me get you something stronger.”

His fingers encircled her wrist. They both stared at the union of their flesh, and he let his fingers bleed away. But she sank back down.

They sat with knees touching until at last he spoke. And at last she listened. And at last he raged. And at last she made him laugh through his tears. And at last they both slept, heads tilted together.  

* * *

 

**Anonymous asked: crane discovering how beautiful Abbie's voice is maybe in a club with the rest of the gang**

“We’ve been here a full hour and you haven’t once ranted about how this is a sign of the decline of Western civilization.” Miss Jenny plucked an alarmingly red cherry from the bottom of her glass and pulled it from its stem.

“On the contrary, I am heartened to see the tradition of live singing continues even into the age of instant music. Whether ‘round a campfire or in a tavern not so unlike this, there was always a song to be had.” He would not tell her that in most cases, they had been bawdy ditties that went far beyond some of the explicit songs he heard on the lieutenant’s  _radio,_ or else political messages set to music. He hated to shatter their pristine views of the past. “And besides, I had no notion Captain Irving had such a fine voice.”

“They make it easy when they give me James Brown. Anybody can look cool doing Brown.” Irving slid back into his chair and nodded at Ichabod. “’cept you, maybe.”

Considering the dance formations and vocal rasp the captain had employed during his song, Ichabod was inclined to agree. He would have looked like a flailing stork. “Will you be taking to the stage as well, Miss Jenny?”

“Nah. Not really a spotlight kinda girl. But, oh, shh. Abbie’s up.”

Miss Mills stepped onto the small dais in the corner of the crowded bar. The master of ceremonies for the evening presented her with a large bowl filled with scraps of paper. This was “retro” night, he had been informed, and all songs were drawn from the ancient annals of musical history: all were at least thirty years old. Of course, they was all new to him. To add spice to the evening, songs were assigned at random, something he was told was unusual.

Miss Mills flashed the audience a shy grin and slipped her hand into the bowl. Once, twice, she swirled, and finally withdrew a scrap of paper. She peeked down at it and groaned. “Aw, c’mon. Can I get a do-over? This song is corny as hell.”

“Nope! Queue it up, Bob. Number five-five-seven-four.”

“Corny?” Ichabod asked.

“Cheesy. That probably doesn’t help,” Miss Jenny said. “Uh…Help me out, Frank.”

“Overly sentimental. Now this, I can’t wait to see.”

Certainly no one could ever accuse Miss Mills of a surfeit of sentimentality. Ichabod’s curiosity, already aroused, climbed higher. On numerous occasions he had heard the lieutenant hum quietly to herself as she studied a particularly dense text, or watched her lips move as she mouthed along to songs on the radio. But to hear her sing in full voice, before such a crowd? A rare treat indeed.

She had to adjust the  _microphone_ lower. Much lower. She cupped one hand gently around the amplification device, swaying gently as the phantom orchestra began with the song’s preamble. It was simple compared to many of the accompaniments he had heard thus far—a piano, a gently  _tsking_ drum. As she inhaled, a hushed choir fell in behind her.

“Wise men say only fools rush in. But I can’t help falling in love with you.”

How could such a small form produce such a full, rich sound? She approached each note languidly, giving them their full measure, never rushing, letting the note hang heavily in the air before moving on to the next.

“Shall I stay? Would it be a sin if I can’t help falling in love with you?”

Only those who knew her intimately would notice the faintest quaver in her voice, the soft tremble of her hands as she brushed a wave of hair from her face. She did not look at the audience, but gazed over their heads like a queen imperial.

“Like a river flows surely to the sea, darling so it goes, some things are meant to be.”

Her voice soared into a higher register, plaintive and sweet. She stretched her arm out across the crowd.

“So take my hand. Take my whole life, too. For I can’t help falling in love with you.”

For the briefest flicker, their eyes met and a crackle of heat lightning burst between them. But then she flinched and was gone, staring through him once more. Only her voice remained, repeating the second voice, softly, plaintively, mournfully.

“Thank you,” she said at last, no longer a bewitching siren but the lieutenant once more. A smattering of cheerful applause rose up; Ichabod joined as best he could, but still felt a-dazed.

“That’s another reason I don’t sing. Abbie sucked up all the talent,” Miss Jenny said. He could only nod.

“I need a  _drink._ ” The lieutenant hopped back onto her tall stool and waved a hand for the servant.

“You earned it. Good job, Mills,” Irving said.

“Thanks. Wish it had been a different song though.”

“Crane seemed to think it was pretty okay,” Miss Jenny said slyly.

“Oh yeah?” Miss Mills arched a brow at him. “Was it okay?”

He searched her face, hunting for any hint of that electricity which had thundered through them. But though flush with success and nerves, there was none of that raw, crackling need. Just a carefully casual question between two carefully casual people.

“It was exquisite,” was all he could say, his own voice rough and low.

* * *

 

**[sneetchstar](http://sneetchstar.tumblr.com/) asked: Okay, I've got one for you: Abbie discovers Ichabod's beard is soft, not scratchy. She can make this discovery any way you wish. :)**

The lieutenant was light as a bundle of feathers in his arms. She was also roaringly drunk.

“This is stupid. This is  _stupid._ Let me walk.”

“Lieutenant, you can see the cars racing by. You were fair walking in circles outside the bar, and I fear what should happen should you stray toward the street.” In addition, she’d been tottering like green seaman on his first voyage. But she would not thank him for mentioning that. “It’s just a bit farther and you may walk about your home as freely as you like.”

“This is stupid,” she murmured again, her head falling against his shoulder, his cheek. All at once, she jerked upright in his arms. “Whoa. It’s so soft.”

“I beg your pardon?” He was beginning to wish he, too, had imbibed a bit more this evening. It might make her somewhat more comprehensible.

“Your beard. I thought it’d be scratchy, but nope. It’s like…” She smashed her palm against his cheek none too gently. “It’s like petting a wiener dog.”

“A  _what_?” His words rippled with laughter. He shifted his grip upon her hips to bear her a bit more comfortably.

“The dogs. The long skinny ones with the silky fur. They’re so soft. Like you.” Her fingers stroked gently through his whiskers now, first ruffling the hair, then making it lie flat once more.

“A badger dog,” he realized. “Nasty, vicious things, you know.” He gave a mocking growl and nipped at her fingers. Good Lord, how much  _had_ he drunk? But her shriek of laughter melted any traces of chagrin.

She gave a sharp tug on his hair. “Bad dog.”

“I did try to warn you.” His tongue darted against her hand in a quick, conciliatory lick like the faithful hound he was. She tasted of limes and salt.

She laughed again and fell back to petting his cheek, slowly and rhythmically, her head heavy against his shoulder. His ears flamed; his skin sparked. “Good Crane. Good puppy. Good Crane.” She ceased her caresses only when he slipped her into bed. “Good Crane. Thanks.”

He brushed his own fingers against her cheek, grazing along the bone, lingering at the delicate skin beneath her eye, straying toward her lips but stopping just shy. Soft. So terribly, terribly soft. “Always, Abbie.”

Neither one of them spoke of that night.

* * *

 

**[thebister](http://thebister.tumblr.com/) asked: For your fic giveaway, could you possibly write a prompt where Abbie finally snaps on Ichabod, because of him not only thrusting his "powerful" wife and "no-wrong-doing" son on her AGAIN, but also the disrespect he has shown her? I kept imagining this happening, and I can see this resulting from him trying to do one of their "fist bumps."**

**[nerdygrlwonder](http://tmblr.co/m2mqjJgCsXeK4d7VND3UyeA): Ohh I love a good prompt fest! Hmm….how about Abbie cluing Crane in on how shady, untrustworthy and weak ass Katrina is? **

Ichabod was weary but elated. The fight had been long, but they had prevailed. Another nail in the coffin of evil and another battle won. Now all that was left to do was to put their weapons away and enjoy the glow of victory.

“Very prettily done, Lieutenant,” he said as they strode into the armory, jangling with the weight of battle axes and an odd belt of ammunition Miss Mills wore slung ‘round her shoulders. “Couldn’t have gone better, don’t you think?”

“Crane, my leg was literally inside a slug monster. To the hip. There is slime up in my underwear right now.” He glanced down at her dripping trouser leg and shuddered. “It almost ate me because you couldn’t follow the plan we agreed to.”

“There were…aspects of the evening which could have gone better,” he permitted. “Yet we prevailed in the end.” He lay down his ax and extended his clenched fist with a smile.

Abbie stared at his offered hand for a long moment. Then she snorted and turned away.

That had never happened before. He trailed after her as she headed for the weapons cabinet. “Miss Mills?”

“A fucking fist bump can’t make everything right. I almost died because you listened to Katrina instead of me. I’m not exchanging an expression of teamwork and elation when you’re pulling that kind of bullshit.”

“Katrina’s plan would have worked, if only her magic had not been diminished by the monster’s density. How was she to know the thing was nearly entirely made of water?”

“Stop.” The explosive final consonant ricocheted off the walls. “Is Katrina a Witness?”

“She is a powerful witch.”

“Have you been demoted? Did God say something to you? ‘Cause He hasn’t said anything to me. Have  _I_ been demoted?”

“I was merely suggesting we consider—”

“ _Have I been demoted_?” Her words shimmered with emotion. She flung the band of ammunition into the cabinet and whirled to face him. Her eyes were wide and trembling, her hands both in the fist bump position at her side. She was a wire pulled taut, caught at the moment just before the breaking point.

“Of course you haven’t,” he said in the gentlest voice he could muster. “And I feared for your life with great mortal terror. I never would have wished that misfortune upon you, not for an instant. You are my partner and ever shall be. But just as we listen to counsel from Miss Jenny or Mr. Ash, so we can profit from Katrina’s expertise.”

“Difference between those two and Katrina is that they’ve never let us down. Those two never need saving. And those two don’t get a fucking  _vote._ ”

Ichabod couldn’t do this. Not again. He was fighting wars on all fronts and he could not bear to make the lieutenant his enemy once more. “We are both weary. I believe it is best we say goodnight. We can discuss this in the morning with fresh minds and clearer hearts.”

“You say goodnight and I say goodbye.”  _Twang._ He could fair hear the wire snap as she slumped into a chair. Despite her words, the throbbing anger ebbed away. Her words became cold, clinical. “I will do this alone before I do this with a partner who doesn’t trust me.”

How could she think that of him? Time and again he had reassured her that he placed all his faith in her, that her company was of the highest value, that they were shield mates in this bloody war unto the gates of hell. Her lack of reciprocation caused a dull throb in his chest. “I trust you. Beyond all doubt I—”

“No. You don’t. You  _say_ you do. But when push comes to shove, even if you agree to my plan, you’ll still run off in the heat of the moment because Katrina tells you to, or because you want to have some big heroic moment of self-sacrifice.”

His head buzzed with mingled anger and pain. “You are the one who spoke of sacrifice, madam. Not I. I believed that my death at Henry’s hand could result in a better world.”

“A better world that left me all alone?” Her voice broke and with it, his heart. He’d had no inkling of what his absence would have such consequences for her. “Our lives are penny stakes at this point. We’re going to die eventually. For now, living is the hardest thing. Fighting is the hardest thing.”

“I didn’t think…I never intended to hurt you.” How long had this resentment been simmering just beneath the surface? How had he never seen it?

Because he had not wished to. Because it was easier to agree with his wife than to fight for his partner.

“That’s exactly it. You didn’t think. You were wrapped up in your own family drama and you lost sight of the whole goddamn world, nevermind little old fucking me.” She jammed the heels of her hands into her eyes but could not entirely hide the tears that shimmered there.

Even now, he could not let the slight against Henry go unremarked. “Wouldn’t you do anything for your sister? Or to have your mother back? Anything at all to redeem them?”

The tears dried with shocking speed. “Not if they were  _murderers._ Because that is what Henry is. He’s directly responsible for what, five, six deaths that we know of? Indirectly responsible for God knows how many more? Yeah, if Jenny were off the grid like that, I’d do what needed to be done. Because keeping the peace is my job. And I thought it was yours, too.”

Redemption, Katrina had pleaded. A fresh start, a new chance for their wayward boy. But that boy with the florist’s shop and the bomb, there was no second chance for him. That girl the succubus had drained to the dregs, she would never be redeemed. All because he had suffered his son to live. All because he listened to compassion instead of reason.

“I’m sorry,” he said faintly.

“I trust  _you_ , Ichabod. I guess I’m just that stupid, or maybe it’s God’s doing. I don’t know. But right now, I don’t believe a single word you say. You’re sorry? Fucking  _act like it._ ” She snatched up her jacket and jerked her arms into the sleeves with such force, he feared a dislocation. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Pick a side.”

For long, dark hours, he sat in the armory and attempted to determine who precisely he was. There was no room for him to be soldier and husband at the same time. Only one identity could survive if the world was to. If their friendship was to.

That night, he buried one half of himself and looked toward the future with hard eyes. 

* * *

 

**Anonymous asked: *SQUEE* a love spell hits sleepy hollow.**

“It’s gotta be because we’re Witnesses. Maybe it puts us in some kinda protective bubble.”

“That exalted status has offered no protection to this point.”

“We’re still alive, aren’t we? Not everybody can say the same.”

Crane flinched. Jenny sighed. The day had been too long for bickering now. But the Chosen of God couldn’t stop arguing about why the love mania that had swept Sleepy Hollow had left them untouched.

It had been pretty nuts. One minute everyone was going about their day. The next, they were…it was weird. It wasn’t a lust spell. Totally different from a sex demon. So yeah, some people had immediately taken to boinking in the streets, but there had been a lot of people walking hand in hand. Sitting in the town square staring soulfully into each other’s eyes. Terrible poetry and love songs warbled beneath open windows.

The entire town became a high school, basically.

Jenny hadn’t been immune, but she didn’t really mind. The blonde haired, blue eyed accountant she’d loved for four hours and forty-seven minutes had been a good way to get Hawley out of her system once and for all. Hell, at the end of it, Greta had even given Jenny her number. And Jenny intended to call. Score one for love spells.

“Perhaps it has to do with our astrological charts. Not everyone was affected. Perhaps it has to do with the conjunction of Venus at birth.” Crane poked his head up from the back seat. “Miss Jenny, what is your place, time, and date of birth?”

“Mars was in conjunction.” She elbowed him back.

“Who believes in astrology anyway?”

“I’ll have you know…”

Whenever Crane started sentences like that, Jenny tuned right the fuck out. Anyway, Jenny came up from between Greta’s thighs long enough to track down an amulet for them. Now Reyes was trying to play it off as “something in the water.” No, seriously. Was claiming some experimental chemical got dumped in the river up at Watervilet and flowed down here. Jenny had to admire the woman’s stones and her denial.

“Look, it doesn’t matter why. It’s over, and chances are slim we’ll face another nymph anyway. If we do, we’ll figure it out then. Onto the next thing,” Abbie said with the purse of her lips that meant this matter was closed and done.

“Still. I hate to leave any mystery yet unsolved. I shall continue to ponder it.”

Were they really this stupid? Well, yes. They were. But it was still kinda shocking that they couldn’t see it.

Part of her wanted to blurt it out. But nah. Better if they came around on their own.

Jenny parked in front of the armory. “See you guys in a couple days. I’m gonna go talk to my guy about that finger bone of Saint Peter. That would come in seriously handy.”

“Thanks Jenny.” Abbie squeezed her shoulder—Jesus, she must’ve been more worried than Jenny knew—and slid out of the car.

“My thanks, as ever, for your quick wit and excellent connections.”

Jenny watched them in the rear view mirror as she drove away. Their breath kicked up fountains of steam that mingled together in the cold air. Crane bent down to speak something directly into her ear, and Abbie threw back her head and laughed.

Idiots. The only people who aren’t affected by love spells are people who are already in love.

They’d figure it out sooner or later.  

* * *

 

**[shaloved30](http://shaloved30.tumblr.com/) asked: Can you write a follow up of sorts of Jenny and Greta? I don't have specifics but maybe there's some sisterly teasing from Abbie this time? Maybe Greta can have some info they can use? I really enjoy bi Jenny as a personal headcanon and thank you for sharing that with us as well.**

Jenny fidgeted with her seatbelt. “Remember, no supernatural stuff. I don’t want Greta caught up in this. If there was anyone else we could turn to—“

“Jenny. We’re asking her to go through some funky back taxes, not swing a sword. I think she’ll be okay.”

Yeah  _but_. People always had a way of getting mixed up in the supernatural. Even if it seemed innocent, even if it seemed safe, somehow it never quite was. And even though she’d met Greta during a goddamn love spell, that didn’t mean Greta understood Jenny’s world. Which was how she liked it. For the first time since she was a kid, Jenny had one person who had no idea what four white trees meant.

“It’s just this once. I know she’s a really good accountant – I don’t know what makes an accountant good, math, I guess? – but this is the only time we’ll use her. The  _only_ time. And you’ll get the department to pay her. Right?”

“Yes of  _course._ ” Abbie made the turn into the beige little office park where Greta had her equally beige little office. “I didn’t realize how much you liked her.”

Jenny had no idea how she’d wound up with someone so  _normal,_ but Greta didn’t make her feel normal. She made her feel extraordinary. Greta loved her stories about traveling the world – heavily sanitized, of course – and things that were old hat somehow became new again for Jenny. But it wasn’t all one-sided. Greta was fascinating. She looked at the word in this totally different way, this way that was smart and thoughtful and untouched by darkness. Jenny loved nothing more than to lay her head on Greta’s stupendous breasts and talk about nothing. About everything.

And her hands, Jesus Christ, the things she could do with her fingers should be illegal.

“Yeah. Well. I just want to make sure she’s treated right. And that she’s safe.”

“I promise no one will ever know she was involved in this.” Abbie threw the car into park and squeezed Jenny’s knee. “I’m happy for you. And I can’t wait to meet her.”

Jenny cleared her throat. “I’d like to see you happy, too.”

“Yeah, well, the only guys I ever see are Crane and Irving, so yeah, no dice.” She wrinkled her nose at the romantic idea of either man, even though anyone with half a brain could see that glitter exploded out of her eyes any time she looked at her partner.

Dumbasses. The both of them.

“There could be dice. There  _are_ dice.”

Abbie blinked in confusion. “What?”

Jenny sighed. “Nothing. Nevermind. Let’s get this over with.”

They slid out of the car and Abbie draped her arm over her sister’s shoulders. “Do I need to have the talk with her? About how I’ll break her kneecaps if the ever hurts my baby sister? Because I will have that talk with pleasure.”

Jenny laughed and shoved her sister away. Something felt weird in her chest, some rising lightness that was familiar but dusty.

Oh. Right. This was what happiness felt like.

 

* * *

 

**Anonymous asked: OMG I just wanted to say THANK YOU FOR THIS!!! Could you write a fic where Abbie and Ichabod have a fall out cos' he betrayed her again this mid-season fianale. And somehow he makes a couple of attempts to win her friendship back eg buy flowers, write letters(trust you to think of something!) but then he does something unexpected(I dunno) and she finally accepts his apology. Thank you!!! :***

The first time he made to apologize, she nodded. Her eyes were distant and her arms were curled about her own shoulders in a protective embrace. “Okay,” was all she said. “Okay.”

And indeed, they were “okay.” Their work continued, smoothed by Katrina’s absence. But they were not  _them._ The distance he had seen in her eyes spooled out between them until they were less partners and more allies, separate agents working to the same ends with divergent methods. No longer could his antics elicit an indulgent laugh. No more did they bow their heads together over a container of cold fried rice and quibble over whose “fortune” was most fortuitous. And when her heart was at its weariest, her hands remained stuffed in her pockets instead of searching for his.

He took to pen and paper to untangle his thoughts, to give him the time and focus he needed to select the proper words to heal this rift. He drafted and redrafted the missive until the mounds of paper collected about him like snow. He left the letter in her mailbox. The next day, it was lying atop a pile of his research at the archives, opened but without remark.

He rambled the countryside (and consulted a florist) to construct a bouquet. A heaping abundance of fragrant purple hyacinth formed the bed of his apology, studded through with mugwort for the bitterness of her absence, yellow-bright lily of the Incas for devotion, and bulbous amaranth for the unchanging nature of his regard. In the center, a single red camellia assured her that his fate was, indeed, in her hands.

She placed the flowers in a vase in the archive. They soon withered and died.

Again and again he beat himself against the rocks of her cool contempt. Words, gifts, vows, all made her retreat ever further, leaving him stranded in a lonely sea.

Until he turned to other words. Words like, “yes, you’re right.” And, “your plan is sound. I shall follow where you lead.” And, “I am unsure, but I trust you.”

Until he swallowed his own words and listened. Until he asked how she was feeling instead of telling her. Her expression came in fits and starts and never lasted long. But when it came, he learned that to sit in silent solidarity can mean more than all the flowers and all the speeches in all the world.

Ichabod strove to become a man who fulfilled his word instead of merely one who gave it. Until one day, when they were redolent with sweat and unmentionables from a  _rugaru,_ she threw her arms around him for no reason at all that he could discern.

“God, I missed you.”

“As have I,” he murmured into her hair.

* * *

 

**Anonymous asked: Yeey! Here's my fic prompt :) - Ichabod kisses Abbie for the first time and can't seem to stop himself due to her strawberry-flavoured glossed lips and Abbie has to literally shove him away so she can get some air. Thank you. so. much!**

She tasted of the first flush of spring.

His tongue darted out.

She tasted of clotted cream and milky tea and quiet afternoons.

His lips roamed, leaving no bit of her unsampled.

She tasted of bursting ripeness collected on sticky fingers, sucked clean one by one.

His knees went to jelly as she rasped out a muffled moan.

She tasted of  _strawberries._

“Jesus. It’s like you’re trying to eat me up.”

His response required no words.

* * *

 

**[nerdygrlwonder](http://nerdygrlwonder.tumblr.com/) asked: Oh and another one! Crane and Abbie's awkward first date!?! I especially need that one ;-)**

Ichabod was determined to woo Miss Mills as a proper woman of the twenty-first century. They had been…something more than partners for some time now, sharing beds and bodies and what glimpses of heart as the lieutenant had been willing to reveal. But she deserved more. She deserved courtship and romance and an ardent suitor.

He researched the matter thoroughly before daring to ask her on a  _date_. First he had sought Miss Jenny’s advice, but she had been unable to stop laughing long enough to answer him. He consulted instead with several officers at the sheriff’s department, who counseled dinner and a movie. He sought knowledge from a book procured from the library,  _A Modern Gentleman’s Guide to Dating._ Oddly, the bulk of the tome focused on how to regain passage to a lady’s good graces once they’d been lost. Passing strange, indeed.

Then he gathered his courage and asked the lieutenant if she would join him for dinner.

“Yeah, I’m starving. But not Szechuan chicken again. All that sodium is gonna kill you.”

“Ah. Forgive me. I did not mean this evening. Tomorrow. A proper meal, at a proper table. Chez Maurice. I’ve made reservations for seven of the clock, if that will serve.”

Her face at once became canny and closed. “What’re you doing, Crane?”

“Please.”

She rubbed her forehead. “Seven it is.”

***

The chairs at Chez Maurice were instruments of torture. His rump ached. His eyes ached from squinting in the dim light. But those discomforts were dwarfed in light of the aching discomfort stretching between the two of them.

Since the day they had met, words flowed freely between the Witnesses. Taunts, jests, declarations of affection, they knew no impediment. Yet here, in the exquisitely hushed and crumb-scraped restaurant, their words grew stilted.

“How is your repast?” he asked. As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized he’d asked the same question already.

“Small. And fussy.” She poked aside a fuzzy weed that had been placed atop her sliver of beef.

“My apologies. I was assured this was the finest restaurant in Tarrytown.” He’d scraped together his salary from a week of tutoring students in their stuttered Latin and frozen French to afford this. And, examining the prices more closely, he still feared he would not have enough for an adequate  _tip._

She let her fork fall from her fingers. “Crane. Why’re we doing this?”

Crane sipped at the broth that surrounded his trout. It tasted like unwashed tomatoes. “I was told this is what courtship looks like now. That this is how suitors show their beloved that they care.”

“Did you really think I didn’t know you cared?”  
  
“There are times when it is difficult to say.” Often, he could read her heart as if the words were inscribed upon her face. But there were those moments when she looked at him and he did not know if he was merely a body, merely a burden, merely a matter of circumstance.

“I know.” She reached out and took his hand, sweeping what the menu had described as an artisinal hand-rolled yeast-leavened potato-horseradish scone to the floor. “This isn’t us. This isn’t who I want us to be.” Her thumb stroked across the back of his hand. He licked his suddenly dry lips. “If you were wooing me—as Ichabod Crane, not this twenty-first century douchebag—how would you do it?”

“I would invite you on a walk beside the river,” he said at once. “We would ramble through the dark in companionable silence. We would sit together in the soft grass and listen to the cry of the owl, to our own beating hearts. And when I could not bear it a moment longer, I would tell you that you are more precious than each and every star burning above our heads, that I would snuff each one dead and cold to purchase but a moment of your happiness.”

“That got a little intense there at the end.” He laughed. She smirked. “But let’s go do it. Fuck this. Fuck what we’re supposed to do. Let’s just be us.”

And all was exactly as he’d said. Though perhaps he hadn’t predicted quite how soft that grass would feel against his bare back, or just how the starlight would shine upon her breast.

* * *

 

**[darlablovesichabbie](http://darlablovesichabbie.tumblr.com/) asked: Here's my prompt. Abbie and Ichabod are living together in the cabin. The washing machine that was there finally died and Abbie decides that it's time to take Ichabod to the laundromat for the first time. Not only is Ichabod outraged at the thought of sharing machines with strangers, and the idea of putting money in the machines to get them to work, but half the washers and dryers are out of service.**

Crane had been weirdly excited about going to the laundromat. Couldn’t stop saying the word: Laundromat. Laundr _o_ mat. Laundro _mat._ He’d praised the idea of a communal laundering space, calling it a clever investment and a wise use of resources.

Then he saw the Sudz n Tan. Or as the neon sign said would have it, the Su z n Ta.

It was…well, it was your basic laundromat. It stood in a drab strip mall, flanked by a Chinese restaurant and a Christian bookstore Abbie was 87 percent sure was a drug front. From the outside, the windows were foggy with condensation. And there was that weird laundromat smell, like wet dog and lavender, with just a hint of coconut oil.

“This is the laundromat?” he asked limply.

“Yup.” Abbie didn’t even bother to hide her grin.

They wrestled their overflowing laundry bags through the door. It was pretty quiet for this time of the evening. Only two screaming kids were playing demolition derby with the laundry carts, and only three already wrinkled co-eds were in line for the tanning bed.

Good. Should be easy to get a machine.

“I’m gonna get some quarters. Start sorting. Three machines—one for whites, one for colors, one for delicates. Make sure the light’s on before you start dumping stuff in. Otherwise we’ll have to take it out.”

It took a few tries to get the change machine to accept her $5, but when she got back, Crane hadn’t even started sorting. He was staring into a machine like he was gazing into the mouth of hell.

“You cannot be serious. You cannot mean to entrust your garments— _my_ garments!—to such a device.”

“Oh, well not  _that_ one. It’s got gum all in it.” She hoped it was gum, anyway. “Let’s find another.”

“Perhaps this was a poor idea. Perhaps we should simply launder the clothes ourselves. We have a perfectly operable sink—”

Abbie brushed by him and began dumping t-shirts into a gum-free machine. “You wanna wash your drawers in the sink, you knock yourself out.” After a minute, Crane joined in, dropping shirts and “smallclothes” into the machine with the tips of his fingers as if they were already infected.

He liked putting the coins into the machine though, listening to them roll down the chute. He seemed so childlike, until you realized he was sketching a schematic of the mechanism in his mind, trying to understand its inner workings with sound alone.

Abbie picked up a magazine to pass the time. Crane wandered over to the tanning bed, spoke briefly with one of the women there, and bounded back to Abbie. “ _That_ is the purpose of the sunlamps we used against the Horseman?” he asked in a stage whisper. “To artificially scorch the skin? In my day ladies used umbrellas to shield even the slightest drop of sunlight. Yet now—”

“Don’t look at me, I don’t tan. But let’s be real, you guys used  _arsenic_ to stay pasty, too, so let’s not talk about how awesome and smart people were in your day.”

Ichabod leaned over her, hands braced on the arms of her chair. “How right you are.” She quirked a brow. Usually he wasn’t big on PDA—she would kiss him just to watch him blush—but now his lips hovered just over hers. “Each of those fashionably pallid ladies was but the merest slip of shadow against the blinding glow of your beauty.”

She leaned up and kissed him and the laundromat fell away. Didn’t matter that they were in this dumpy place, didn’t matter that they were going to have to scrape up money for a new washer, didn’t matter they still needed to save the world.

All that mattered was that they did it all together.

 


End file.
